


A Night on the Town

by vanillafluffy



Category: Fast and the Furious Series, The Fast and the Furious (2001), The Munsters
Genre: Blood Drinking, Character Turned Into Vampire, Childe & Sire Interactions, Crack Treated Seriously, Darwin Awards, Destroying Childhood Memories, Idiots street racing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Male Slash, Marijuana, Predator/Prey, Seriously every warning tag I can think of AND a warning note, Street Racing, Trash-Talking, Vampire Sex, Vampires, bad language, horny guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 07:03:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Eddie Munster has been living the undead life of a vampire for fifty years, and he's found someone to share it with--hot young street racer Brian O'Conner. Once Brian's been Turned, it's up to Eddie to teach him how to hunt.PLEASE READ THE NOTE BELOW.





	A Night on the Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



> This is not the happy, goofy Eddie Munster of the TV series. He's all grown up now and it's a dark world he lives in. If you think you may be traumatized by him engaging in trash-talking, blood-drinking and m/m slash, back button out of here NOW. And if you don't, don't come whining to me about how I ruined your childhood. (This concludes our Public Service Announcement; we now resume our regularly scheduled smutfest.)

“Oh god, that’s so good,” Brian moans, lifting his blood-stained face to meet my gaze.

Such a pretty boy…I run my fingers through his curly blond hair, smiling. When I’d seen Brian, I’d known I had to turn him, to make him _mine_. 

It’s been fifty years since my first real meal, but I still remember that ecstasy. Unlike Brian, I hadn’t been turned; in my case, it was a family thing. It skipped a generation, but I take after my grandfather. He has the power of mesmerism--mine has yet to fully develop--and he’d taken it upon himself to acquire my first donor.

The tempting scent of her had overcome my inhibitions; Grandpa had to pull me away, or I would have made a pig of myself and drained her. Thinking of that succulent taste, even now has the power to stir my loins. 

“That’s enough for right now, Brian,” I say to my pupil.

“Just a little more? Please? It’s so good!”

“There’s plenty more where that came from.” I’m amused; if he thinks commonplace A-positive is yummy, just wait until he samples something _rare_. Once in a while, I’ll treat myself to some AB-pos, which is like champagne. (In contrast, A-pos and O-pos are so common, it’s like drinking beer. A and O negative? More like…craft beer.) “Lick the wound to seal it, like I showed you.”

He does, looking at me with bright blue eyes--such a beautiful boy!--I can’t help myself--I lean forward to lick the blood from his mouth. It also conveniently cleans up the evidence.

We prop the young donor near the backdoor of the club--for some reason, it seems our kind don’t show up well on camera, so anyone reviewing the security tape will see the human swaying from the depths of the alley to collapse by the door.

“Please, Ed, can we find another one?” he asks once we’re back on the sidewalk. 

I’ve been planning his first hunt. That little club-rat was just to take the edge off--I know all too well what can happen, hunting on an empty stomach. Still, I can’t resist teasing him a little.

“I thought we’d go back to my place,” I tell him innocently. “You’ve only seen about half my toy collection.”

A despairing gasp. “No! Please! I need more, it hurts!” There’s such sweet agony on his handsome face, I want to take him right here on the street, bend him over a car and have my way with him…but what kind of example would that be setting? Discipline, that’s what he needs to learn.

“Not here,” I say, leading the way to where my car is parked. “We want to spread out our feeding ground. As long as we’re careful, we won’t be detected. I’ve been feasting my way through Los Angeles for fifty years, and they’re none the wiser.”

My car is sleek and immaculately kept, not a speck of dust on her hematite paint job. The interior is perfumed with the scent of leather and just a hint of graveyard dirt. Brian loves it because it’s fast, I love it for the same reason, but also because it’s mine. (I’m very possessive, have you noticed?)

Unlike many of my kind--I get the newsletter--I happen to love an activity that mortals traditionally do at night--street racing. That’s where I first met the enchanting Brian O’Conner. I courted him discreetly for several months until I was sure we were simpatico. Siring a neophyte is a serious business; the results of a too-hasty embrace can be heart-breaking--neos running amok with newfound power, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake, and their sires tasked with stopping the offender. I had no intentions of adding to that statistic!

So, one, we have common interests. Two, not only is he very pretty, he swings my way--enthusiastically! And three, Brian was formerly in law enforcement; his knowledge of the inner workings of the department might prove useful.

We have a green light at the intersection ahead--fortunately, I have excellent reflexes, because two cars roar through the red as if it wasn’t there. 

Beside me, Brian swears. 

Without thinking twice, I stomp on the gas, turn the wheel to the left and go scorching after them. This can’t be an organized race; if it was, somebody would’ve ‘accidentally’ blocked the intersection with car trouble or a phony fender-bender.

I’m angry, but it’s that dangerous, cold anger that means somebody is going to die.

I know where the turnaround would be if they were doing a down-and-back, and they are. Damned fools.

Literally.

They’re racing back, side-by-side as I veer into the oncoming lane at the nearest cross-street. Ever play chicken with two cars? Of course, knowing we can’t die helps, but I’m hoping my car doesn’t get too badly fucked up. “Hold on,” I say casually to Brian.

I’m straddling the dotted line, and they part, like Moses parting the Red Sea, one of them launching over the median and flipping at least once, the other slamming into a brick wall at speed.

Carnage ensues. I make sure that my still-unscathed vehicle is parked on the correct side of the road before we go to investigate. That way, we could plausibly be good Samaritans stopping to help.

“New plan,” I tell my protege as we look into the yellow car that flipped. “He’s all yours. Just remember to seal him off when you’re done.” Brian looks gleeful and grateful--for about two seconds, then he lunges for the dumb fuck who’d been wearing a seat-belt, which hadn’t protected him from having the roof crush half of his head. 

My own prize clearly has a broken neck, in addition to numerous nicks from glass and flying debris. From the cuts wafts the scent of my drug of choice, that lovely AB-pos…I sink my teeth into his throat without ceremony. I don’t care if it hurts--and besides, he’s dying anyway. A careless, selfish little creep like this deserves more pain. He might have killed mortals, and I can’t abide waste.

How can he be such a wretch and taste so good? I drink and drink, glutting myself because I so seldom can. That creamy, silky delicate taste…I shudder, the heat of it filling me, warming me like nothing else does….

A hand catches my shoulder. “Ed, they’re coming.” The words have no meaning. “Ed!” Louder this time. “Listen! Sirens! We’ve got to get out of here!”

With that broken neck, they won’t have to look too hard for a cause of death. I seal the slashes where my fangs went in, licking away the last drops of juicy goodness. I turn my back on him. 

Thoughtfully, Brian has brought the car around to my side of the street so we can make a quick, discreet exit. Really, I’ve chosen my partner well. He smiles over at me, face as red-smeared as mine is, and I quickly steer into a deserted parking lot. The next few minutes make me wonder if the individual who coined the phrase ‘sucking face’ was one of us. 

Brian comes up licking his lips. “You taste interesting,” he comments. “Different….”

I loll back in my seat, feeling the familiar euphoria. I could drink A or O all day long and not feel as buzzed as I did from that one good hit of AB. Oddly enough, I think B just tastes nasty, although it’s super-scarce and I’ve known some of us who prize the stuff. Still, I don’t want to share the secret joys of AB with Brian just yet.

“You’ll learn, darling,” I murmur. “Was he good? Do you need more?”

“He was on coke. I could taste it.”

“Their drugs don’t usually affect us.”

“It was different from the first one. That one was just booze. This tasted…” He’s unconsciously licking his lips, trying to concentrate on something fairly subtle. 

I’ve been around the block. Hell, I remember the Eighties, when it seemed like everybody in town was snorting the stuff. “Like a cross between chlorine and alka-seltzer?” I suggest.

Brian starts, eyes wide with recognition. “That’s it! I liked the booze better.”

“No doubt. I’ll tell you what else is good, especially now that it’s legal--weed. No, don’t roll your eyes at me like that. Trust me, Brian--a good old-fashioned pothead with no other vices is a delight. They’re earthy and sweet, and the better the shit they’re smoking, the more satisfying the red stuff.”

He shrugs. “Sure, I’ll try anything once. I’m still a little hungry. That last one bled out too fast.” He’s lost that edginess he’d exhibited after his first feeding. He’s thinking now, not consumed by hunger…oh yes, _mine_ …he’s an adult in the world of humans, of course, but in my world, he’s my sweet tender young man-child…but clever. Learning fast, learning to think…even after feeding, when he might reasonably be expected to be distracted; he’d pulled the car around to where I was and gotten my attention…smart.

I know a neighborhood where there’s a good concentration of smokeshops--ergo, ‘heads. While we’re driving out there, listening to a golden oldies station--ah, the Beach Boys! The songs of my pre-adolescence!--I feel mellow after a good dinner and convivial.

“Did I ever tell you about the hot-rod my Grandpa built when I was a kid?” I ask him. I regale him with tales of the dragster while we motor out to Spliffsville.

Luck is with us; we drive back and forth for a little while, and on one of the quieter side streets, run across a guy who’s by himself, walking along swigging from a bottle of orange soda. From twenty feet downwind, I can tell he’s probably trying to satisfy a case of the munchies which almost makes it too easy. Time to educate my boy some more.

“There are a lot of ways to get what we need,” I tell Brian. “There’s guile, like that club-rat. Force, under certain circumstances--I don’t advise it, but those jackasses had it coming. And sometimes, bribery gets everybody what they want. Pay attention….”

I approach the stoner. He’s one of those guys whose looks won’t change much between the ages of thirty-five and sixty-five, but he seems robust enough that he’s probably around forty. Close up, the smell of burnt cannabis is intense. “Excuse me, sir,” I give him a smile, careful not to flash too much fang. “Perhaps you could help settle a small bet for us?”

Our quarry is carrying a small paper bag, in addition to the bottle of Sunkist. He reaches into it, and I see Brian tense. “M&M?” Stoner offers. “They’re the peanut butter kind.”

“That’s very kind of you. Here’s the thing, my friend and I have a bet that for fifty dollars--” I display the cash, “You will allow him--”

”I don’t do no butt stuff,” the guy interrupts. “Not me. Nope. Not my thing. I was in the county lock-up one time, and this old boy--”

“Fifty dollars if you will allow him to suck your cock.”

Stoner looks confused. “Yeah, I’ll suck his cock for fifty, that’s no big deal.”

“No, fifty dollars if you’ll let him suck you.”

“Well, I guess so,” he says, still looking like there is some fine print he can’t quite read--which there is, but he comes to a decision quickly enough and holds out his hand. 

Amused, I give him the money, which he thrusts into the paper bag with the M&Ms.

“Over there,” I suggest. There’s an overgrown hedge in front of a house that looks like no one’s lived there this century. We all shuffle into the yard. “Get his pants down…no, friend, your ass is perfectly safe, we just want to see--”

As Brian presses his teeth into Stoner’s femoral artery, I catch a whiff. So much for keeping my protege on a diet of common blood! Our new pal is that gorgeous AB pos. I almost sob at the sweet, sweet scent. 

Brian licks the wound closed and cleans him after what seems like the merest sip. “Not bad,” he nods judiciously. “Like smoky old bourbon.”

Apparently, he hasn’t developed much discernment of palate yet, but the lingering fragrance is driving me mad. What are the odds of two of them in one night? I shouldn't--but I do. Stoner is blinking at us, and I summon as much mesmerism as I can and whisper, “Peace…”. Then my teeth are at his throat, and I’m tasting him, messy greedy gulps of the best thing in the world.

Thank goodness for my earlier feeding. That dumb street racer hadn’t been this satisfying, but he’d left me full enough that I don’t overindulge on Stoner.

“Oh man, that was some good shit,” he mumbles as I finish. He staggers toward the street. “What a headrush!” 

“Hang on!” I make sure he has his drink and the bag of M&Ms (and I drop another Jackson in there, because he was worth it, every last drop). 

“Gonna go home now,” he slurs. “You guys wanna come over and party?”

“We’ll walk with you,” I say, because he’s been not just delicious, but cooperative--and knowing where he lives could be useful in the future.

It turns out we’re literally three houses away from where Stoner lives. Finding the place again won’t be difficult, because there’s a metal sculpture in the front yard that I _think_ is supposed to be a pig with wings, although it might be some kind of dinosaur--whatever it is, it’s a distinctive landmark.

I let Brian drive, because right now I’m so replete I just want to savor it. He’s just the opposite, oozing energy and vitality. I’m in my prime, as our kind go, but beside him, I definitely feel my age.

We’re a few blocks from home--I do _not_ live with my parents, I live in the apartment over what used to be their carriage house--when Brian unexpectedly blurts, “Thanks, Ed.”

“Whatever for?”

“For tonight…for everything...for turning me. I like this. Right now, I feel…oh god, so many things--!”

His voice is resonant, his eyes almost glowing in their fervor. Despite my satiation, I’m aware of another appetite that wants to be satisfied this evening. I reach out a hand and discover that yes, he does indeed have an erection. “Tell me. I want to know all about how you feel. How did it feel to hunt, to drink deep? Start at the beginning--how was your first taste?”

“At first, I was afraid--I was so hungry, I thought, what if I can’t stop? I was so hungry, and it tasted so good, like it was what I needed--the way I used to drink sports drinks after a hard workout--it hurt to stop, I mean, it really physically hurt.”

“I remember. That’s because it was your first--you’ve only just turned, and your body is still adapting to its new abilities. There are nutrients we can only get from blood, and it’s important not to let yourself get too depleted. We’ll go out hunting again tomorrow--the first week or so should see you through that phase.” I caress his cheek. “I’m very pleased with how well you handled yourself.”

“That crash…part of me was thinking about all the accidents I saw when I was a cop, but I could smell his blood, and I didn’t care!”

“Turn here, sweetheart--this is our street--” His anguish is difficult for me to relate to--really, those two clowns were just asking for Darwin Awards.

Brian brakes and swings onto Mockingbird Lane.

“What about our friend the stoner?” I ask to get his thoughts onto a more productive track.

“I don’t think he’s had a bath this week, but you were right, he tasted surprisingly good.”

“You didn’t drink much.”

“I was pretty full by then. _You_ had a nice little snack.” He grins as he expertly steers us down the driveway of 1313.

“Very tasty,” I agree as he parks the car. “And I’m going to have another tasty little snack in just a few minutes.” 

“I hope you're not talking about cheese and crackers.” Brian rubs his tented denims. “Because right now, I’m so hard I think I’m going to die again. I’ve been hard ever since the first one. It’s like I just keep getting harder….” He gets close and nuzzles my neck, which I’m going to have to teach him about. Yes, it’s an erogenous zone, but for our kind, it’s generally perceived as a threat.

At the moment, though, I’m not going to lecture or quibble. Kissing him brings a lingering bouquet of AB pos…. “Upstairs!” I gasp, and we bolt up the staircase…at the top, he pins me against the door, grinding his hips against mine and growling into my mouth.

“I feel potent,” he declares, hands clawing at my shirt. “Like I could fuck forever.”

We fairly tumble into the living room when I finally get the door open. Then there’s the usual tearing off of clothes until we make it into the bedroom.

You know what comes next--no pun intended. We’re all over each other. Hands and dicks and mouths and a hint of fang here and there. A little pain, because it feels good, and a lot of pleasure. By the time I make sure that the window shades are down and the bed-curtains are drawn, we’ve used each other every which way. I feel exhausted like I haven’t been in a very long time. I’m delightfully tender in all kinds of sensitive places and perfectly satisfied.

Brian curls up against me, already drowsy with the advent of sunrise. The thought of having him forever puts a smile on my face as I drift off to sleep.

…


End file.
